


the long night

by tenderthings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, F/M, Post-Break Up, Survival Horror, Trauma, no one dies tho!, this is uhhhhh sad i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 16:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderthings/pseuds/tenderthings
Summary: When a mission goes wrong, Solas witnesses the first of the damage he’s caused, and a change takes place within the Inquisitor.“They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.”





	the long night

**Author's Note:**

> Slight warning for eye trauma. Not to the characters, but a bad guy! It's over pretty quick.

 

* * *

 

As night falls, a chill sinks down Solas’ spine. What had been a simple reconnaissance twists into a fight for survival. An unnatural silence renders them mute; wildlife all but fades away. The forest canopy devours the moons and stars. Within an hour, they were virtually blind. Well-hidden, yes, but if the enemy were to fall upon them again, he doubts they’d live to see daybreak.

Before the attack, all seemed well. They were making good time on their journey so the Inquisitor called for a rest.

One moment, she was talking to him for the first time in weeks. The next, she’s shoving him out of the path of a shadow made of crystal and warped flesh.

By the time he and the others lost sight of their attackers, they veered off any path they knew.

Lost in the midsts of the Graves, the thick brush was near impossible to navigate. They rely solely on high terrain, areas that have not seen creatures walk up-right in hundreds of years. Titan, willow-like trees provide cover, but Varric struggles. Injured, on top of ill-suited eyes and stature, his wheezing only gets worse by the hour. What aid Solas provides must be preserved to keep them moving—for within the long dark, what the humans call the witching hour comes to a head.

It begins with eyes in the shapes of leaves. Then, bodies made of shadow and air. The squelch of mud beneath their tired feet begins to look, sound, and smell wrong, _vile_. None say it but they all know the illusion to be gore, sinking up from the earth, discharge from a mass grave.

Ghosts begin to stir, vindicated.

Whispers gnaw at the Veil, threatening in sacrilegious tongues. _You are not welcome here_. Only Varric has the pleasure of being deaf to it as Cassandra quakes, snapping her head at every clear word. Victims, without mercy or forgiveness, hiss at her piety, her humanity. Solas understands everything and more but ignores their revenge, as if his own crusade was not in play.

The only one amongst them suited to the tension and terror was the Inquisitor. Fearless, Iona acts as their last vigil and keeps the ghosts of murdered elves at bay.

She leads the group into the shade of an ancient tree trunk, as wide and broad as the roof of a house. She signals them to stop while she scouts ahead.

Solas sees they’ve reached a dead end, a fallen tower overtaken by the forest.

When she reaches the ruin, Iona runs her hand along its mossy wall, thinking. Then, she steps back, crouches down, and presses her ear to the earth. What tremors she hears, she chooses not to communicate.

She stands up again and takes hold of a vine-rope. She tugs hard before gathering her strength and climbing up. They watch her ascend, taken aback by her prowess, movements appearing both practiced and unnatural, spidery and beautiful. She is quick but not quick enough; the night only gets darker and there is no way around but over. What’s worse is the tinge of strangeness in the air, unlike what they’ve been feeling for hours.

When she reaches the top, she comes to a squat, braced by her hand.

In the emerald night, where the light comes in fleeting, her eyes reflect back. Her ears twitch. She looks down at them, as if prey found by the black panthers that prowled these wilds a millennium ago.

Solas is the only one who can make out her intentions, using his equally keen eyes.

“Be ready,” he whispers to the others and nods at the Inquisitor. She glares at him, out of habit now.

Minutes pass. Then, slowly, the Inquisitor rolls up to her full height as the ugly clang of metal enters the ditch below.

Cassandra unsheathes her sword and moves close to Varric as he finds cover and readies his crossbow. Solas summons a barrier but keeps his footing light. They will be running soon.

The Veil threatens to tear once the barrage begins. He and Cassandra scale down the hill and enter combat, fighting blind and scared. The spirits chant; Solas can feel their joy at spilled holy blood when in reality, fear is their greatest ally—’til it is too late for even that.

Red lyrium sets the forest alight. Inhuman cries drag life back into the world as one abomination falls after another.

All four have fought red templars a hundred times since the order’s corruption, but never like this—never so close to their faces, their crystallized eyes and flaking skin. Dread overlaps adrenaline and it’s not long before the Graves smell like death once again.

Above, arrows and bolts fly. Solas catches flashes of a gleaming-eyed figure leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree, a sentinel like her ancestors but reinforced by a dwarf’s might. When she protects him, he heals her, balls of green magic in her wake. Soon, the templars grow wise to the sky and draw their attention to the hillside where Varric stayed.

They ascend, like vermin, and there is nothing Cassandra can do to stop the tide.

Varric pulls back but the ghosts draw in.

When Solas turns to run to the dwarf’s side, he is met with a pommel to the head.

 

 

In the Fade, he watches Iona hold his body until her arms grow heavy. She lowers him into the ground then leaves, tearfully.

Gradually, the world expands. The night ends. The ditch grows into a valley, a horde appears from the bush—elves, humans; banners, religion. The Exalted March.

He is amongst his kind but not, smashed between bodies but not. He feels every bone in his body break beneath a human’s boot. He drags an elf boy the same age as his daughter through the dirt and kills him, slow. He cries a mother’s tears as the Divine orders the execution of all prisoners of war. He pisses on the effigies left by the elders for their lost children. He is called knife-ear, defiler, heathen. He stands amongst a thousand soldiers, broken treaties, and the final horn of retreat that comes too late. All is lost; they’re put in chains.

Solas wakes from the vision only to find himself alone, confused, a scream and a lover’s name caught in his throat.

Minutes or perhaps hours have passed. The enemy has scattered, spread into the undergrowth like poison. The ghosts warn him so, speaking a dialect no elf was allowed to remember.

Likely concussed, Solas gets to his feet and gathers his bearings as best he can. He takes one dizzying step before realizing his staff is lost and he recognizes nothing—not even his own body. Ice floods his veins, his knees buckle, but he refuses to fall.

He’s come so far, he has so much left to do, a birthright to rebuild—

Solas hears something in the distance.

The spirits whisper _go_ , then _leave_ , and finally _liar_ , as if they understood. They can’t.

He doesn’t weep for them but follows their command. He is no shem; they don’t want him to dead yet.

The voices lead him to an incline, where the forest is dense. He walks it as stealthily as his shaking body can. Thorns and branches cut up his face and clothes, but the forest pleads him to go on—go on, if you dare. Eventually, he comes upon a wide break in the canopy where a stream runs through and the ground is leveled. Twin moons have turned the water-flow into glittering crystals and the grass, a prussian blue. In the middle of the meadow, far from where Solas hides, three templars stand amongst dead others. They circle a fallen figure.

At first, he mistakes it for a wounded animal. But no, it is Iona, unarmed and head bowed. He can hear her desperate breathing.

Instincts thrust Solas forward, but shock catches him dead. She’s jumped to her feet, then charges, as if flying.

There is nothing beautiful about her this time.

Her teeth, like fangs, meet and sink into the neck of a templar. Lithe limb encase a gigantic body, locking tight. A ghoulish noise rings out, but she is swift and uses her enemy’s weight to her advantage. They struggle and fall, rolling far and fast into the stream several feet away.

Before the others can advance, she rips out his throat.

Bloated and gray fingers clasp around a suddenly gushing wound, choked cries bubbling just as violently as she jerks up. She relieves the templar of his bow and quiver, blood smeared down her face and neck.

A single arrow kills the second attacker, straight between the eyes. His skull cracks.

The third attempts to flank, his sword sweeping low but not low enough as she ducks then barrels forward, head first. Bull would be proud—the templar’s withered body shakes in its metal case, like marbles, as they hit the ground. Arrows spill from the quiver. Lyrium spikes break. Jolts of static cast both in a red, haunting glow. The templar’s cry is a monstrous and twisted sound, echoing through the forest.

Iona climbs over the creature. Before anything can be done to stop her, she grabs a stray arrow and stabs into what remains of a human eye.

He— _it_ —screams again. Hands jut out to catch her arm, but frantic magical energy descends its mind into delirium. The templar flails this way and that, crying louder. She anchors down through her thighs, her other hand round its throat, and lifts her fist only to thrust it back down, fast.

Again and again, she hammers the arrow in, gouging until the warped skull gives and the templar dies as cruelly as it lived.

Eventually, she stops, panting hard. She leaves the broken arrow within the skull.

As she gets back onto her feet, she spits on the corpse. Speckles of blood splatter along the chestplate’s holy emblem, Andraste’s flaming sword.

The first templar is still alive, sputtering as his blood pools into the stream. Iona picks up the bow and quiver and takes a minute to fix the latter across her chest. Then, she approaches and Solas watches on.

She doesn’t bother wasting a shot. Instead, she lifts her heel and digs into the templar’s face, shoving it to the side and into the direction of the waterflow.

Perhaps this one was not wholly gone. Perhaps she even noticed, or cared. The templar gives in to the pressure. His hands fall to the wayside and eyes slip shut. She closes her own and bears down through her leg until the body tremors stop.

At last, her strength is spent. When she steps away, her knees give in and she collapses by the gentle brook.

Solas’ stoic expression breaks as she lets out a soft noise, a quiet sob, barely caught between her teeth.

“Ir abelas,” she cries to no one. “I am so, so sorry.”

Beneath the full gleam of the moons, he sees her fully now—defiled in a way no battle as ever done before.

She’s turned pale, paler than the bodies she felled or the moons themselves. The fingers of her right hand dig into her left. Out of habit or pain, it’s hard to say. Her head falls back as she begins to rock, neck bared, face scrunched up. A torrent of prayers builds in her throat and she struggles to simply breathe, to not give in to the pain, or guilt, or history pressing down on and in.

Tears leave streaks through grime and blood. She has won, but Solas has seen her dreams. He knows a part of wishes she did not.

There isn’t a spirit around that doesn’t laud her strength or question his heart.

After a moment, Solas makes himself known, snapping a twig in the process.

She jerks at the sound. Her knees bend, one up, the other braced and Solas is greeted with an arrow flying overhead.

She readies another as he steps into the moonlight, arms up.

“It is only me,” he says, as softly as he can. “Be calm.”

She doesn’t let down her weapon, though her aim shakes. Panic floods her gore-stripped face as she blinks, rapidly.

He lowers one hand as if to reach out for her. “Inquisitor—”

“Don’t!”

She strengthens her pull, the arrow’s feathered back kissing her cheek. In that moment, he scarcely recognizes her.

“Don’t come any closer!”

Something akin to mockery slips into his head, snapping its jaws. What did he expect from someone so young, so broken, so fiercely in love? Of course a day like this would come. He’s seen it before, with others, friends, himself. This is his doing. This is his war.

He takes a breath and steels his heart from the ache taking root.

They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.

“Da’len, please. You know me; lower your bow.”

She’s confused, hurt. Scared. Another tear slides down her face. Then, she grits her teeth and snarls, and he knows his mistake before she even speaks.

“Don’t call me that. You know better. You’re not allowed to call me that. You’re not real, you’re not even here. _You left me,_ you fucking bastard, you broke my heart and left me just so you could die in this fucking place!”

She thinks—what does she think? That this isn’t real? Is it? _Is it?_

The wind, difficult hear amongst trees so thick and old, now howls. They both fall silent to the sound of tree-tops shuddering.

It’s real, he thinks. It’s all real, from the bones the forest feeds off of to the woman before him, driven to the edge by thinking him dead.

Leaves rain down, but being so far up, they look odd, misshapen against the moonlight. It reminds him of ash, slowly descending upon a fallen kingdom. The smell of blood, fear, and sweat worsens the image in his head—and a woman. Another forsaken woman lies at his feet, scared to death.

They’ve survived the battle, but the war is yet to come. Looking back at her, at his inquisitor turned feral, now openly weeping at the sight of the stars, Solas tries to remember who she was before tonight. A doe? A rabbit? When he met her, she was soft, bright, and loyal to her people. Cassandra—if she still lives—doubted her god’s choice. Solas regrets his.

Harden your heart, he told her as he tossed it back at her. She snarled then too, but took the hurt he caused and shoved it inside her chest.

He hoped she’d never forgive him but hadn’t yet prepared himself for the day she’d take aim at him.

Today isn’t that day, however.

Her grip has loosened and she’s crying so hard, there’s no chance she’d be able to keep a steady grip. The spirits warn him not to approach. Whether they are protecting him or her, he doesn’t know but defies his descendants nonetheless.

He kneels before his former lover.

“Inquisitor,” he says then corrects himself. “Iona. Please get up. We can’t stay here, it isn’t safe.”

She ignores him, dropping her bow to cradle her face in her hands. She cries harder, full-body throes.

He wants to hold her but doesn’t. Instead, he drops his voice to whisper, “Please. _Please_. We must find the others, we must make it back to camp.”

She shakes her head, a muffled ‘I can’t’ slipping past.

Gently, he grabs her wrist and pulls it to him. She lets him.

“Iona,” he begins, stops, and presses closer. He is real. She is real. This is real. He hurt her, and that’s real too.

“You can. You must. If we stay, more will come. You understand, don’t you? Corypheus will win if you die here. The Inquisition will be lost. Please, get up.”

He means more than she’ll ever know. And that’s the great tragedy, isn’t it? Everything he wants to say and everything he will do in spite of it.

“Iona.” He squeezes her wrist. Softly, he risks a kiss against her palm. “You must go on.”

Solas drags the Inquisitor to her feet, his legs wavering at the energy he expends. His head is still spinning but rather than heal himself, he holds her by the waist, cups her face, and focuses on her.

He fixes little, but that’s the point. He’s learned when to stop helping.

Warmth floods her battered body, like a sacred and sweet kiss. As bruises soften at his touch, Iona’s eyes slip open. For the first time since she walked away from him, she looks at him without malice or disgust. Her tears stop.

The forest shifts into a healthy green the longer he heals her. There’s love in her eyes, dreamy and sickly, followed slowly by clarity, recognition. His own expression remains blank.

When he pulls his hands away, he takes the warmth with him and the spell ends.

She gently pushes him back as reality snaps back into place.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“The Veil is thin here. You have nothing to apologize for, Inquisitor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. Only now, does she wipe away the blood around her mouth.

“I do, but you’re right. We can’t stay here.”

She looks around, at all she’s done, but doesn’t pause to let the disgust sink in. When she returns to him, her gaze is dulled, as if he’s insignificant. Good, he thinks.

“Alright.” She sucks in another breath. “Alright. Where is your staff?”

“Gone, broken.”

“And your head?” She gestures to the trail of blood, now dried down his face. He hadn’t noticed it before. “Can you walk on your own?”

“I believe I can.”

She nods, swallows, and looks around again. “I recognize this place. We can’t be far from the others, or the camp. With any luck, we’ll make it through to morning.”

He’s relieved but refrains from admitting so. She frowns at his silence.

“Stay close. I can’t have you dying now, Solas,” she says. “The Inquisition still needs you.”

She turns and chooses a path in seconds. Her body doesn’t shake nor does her stride waver. The forest is her domain; the night sky will guide them out.

Iona steps out of the moonlight and into the pitch black. He lingers behind, just to be certain how far she will go without looking back.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm open to critiques for this piece, as I spent a lot of time on it and I'm trying to get better with action and horror themes. Regardless, thank you for reading!
> 
> [ My tumblr!](tenderthings.tumblr.com) Will cross-post this soon.


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